Growing Together
by Luna Lovegood5
Summary: Peeta and I grow back together. It starts small: a primrose bush. A light kiss on a piece of burnt skin in the night. A promise.


_Peeta and I grow back together._

–

It starts small.

A primrose bush. A light kiss on a piece of burnt skin in the night. A promise.

_Always._

It's not easy. There are frequent nightmares. Screams. Strangling. Mutts. Blood. Arrows.

And always, every time, hands reaching through the darkness to pull me back out. Scarred hands. Calloused hands.

Baker's hands.

_Better not to give into it. It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart._

I'm trying, Finnick. I promise I'm trying.

There are days when it seems impossible, but he's strong and I'm stubborn and I'll be damned if I don't try to be worth at least one of him. This time, for the first time, I get to start on a blank canvas, work from the ground up rather than a pedestal down. Prove to him that I love him as unconditionally as he once loved me.

We toast a lot of bread. Haymitch jokes that must mean we're married now.

One day it isn't a joke any more.

_You love me. Real or not real?_

_Real._

I know then that this has always been coming. I wonder if everyone else knew it before me.

Haymitch wanders unheard into our kitchen the next morning and informs us he's going to vomit up his breakfast unless we put each other down. Peeta springs back from me so quick that his artificial leg almost falls off. I slide off the counter and try to stop blushing through sheer willpower alone.

Haymitch's smirk tells me I am not particularly successful.

Knocking is always appreciated, Peeta reminds him coolly, but there's a smile playing around his lips. He stands in front of me, knots our fingers behind his back where Haymitch can't see.

Haymitch just pours himself some more liquor and passes out.

This happens most mornings.

On Prim's birthday, I find the smallest, darkest part of the house and hole myself up in it. It turns out to be a linen closet. Apparently I'm not too hard to predict because it's not long before Peeta joins me. He holds me silently, stuck in the same position for so long that I am sure he'll never be able to unlock his arms.

_Thank you_, I don't say. _I love you_.

When we're ready to face the world, we smell of laundry and have to wear clothes wrinkled from the weight of our bodies. There are tear-streaks on my face for days, but I wear them pride. For her.

This happens most years.

He bakes with cinnamon when he's sad. I grow to despise the smell of it on his skin. Scrub it off him myself with tears and kisses and exorbitant amounts of soap.

He paints when he's happy. He sketches my stomach a lot bigger than it actually is, but I know it won't be long before reality catches up with his drawings. I'm breathless with fear to see our future set down on paper like that but I think it's OK. Peeta says miracles are meant to be terrifying.

Haymitch laughs and laughs. Asks if he can be called uncle. Only if I can shoot your damn geese, I tell him. That's no way for a pregnant lady to speak, he tells me.

It's been a couple of days since he had a drink.

We swear we will never forget. But slowly, together, we move on.

We are roped into a television appearance when they hold the next elections. Caesar Flickerman cries over democracy. The whole of Panem cries over our news, a living symbol of a revolution that couldn't have happened without Peeta's love.

Someone sends us roses as congratulation. I choke. Peeta spends a lot of time clutching the back of a chair. Haymitch comes and sets fire to the damn things with some liquor and some matches. Days go by. Peeta makes cinnamon bread. I throw all the cinnamon out. Ask if he can teach me how to make cheese buns instead.

Not a lot of cheese buns get made. They never do. We usually get at least as far as grating the cheese, though. Today we get about as far as pulling the bowl out of the cupboard before his lips are tracing the scars on the back of my neck.

I think the bowl breaks, but I'm not sure.

There's flour in my fingers and a button missing from Peeta's collar when the inevitable arrives at our door.

We didn't tell Gale.

Peeta shakes the flour out of his hair and leaves us to it.

Accusations. _You never wanted this._ Reluctance. Eventually, congratulations. He is almost sincere.

The air around him is full of smoke and I taste ashes on my tongue every time he speaks. Ashes that could choke a mockingjay, just like they choked a little duck.

He says he'll come and see the baby. He never does.

I wish I didn't care. I wish I cared more.

She doesn't look like Prim, in the end. She looks like me. I am surprised. I am grateful. I am too exhausted to think of anything else.

She is precious and sacred and _ours_, nobody else's. There are many more elections, but we never let the cameras into our lives again. No child of mine will ever be a source of Capitol entertainment, even if we are the closest thing they've got to a walking advert for democracy.

Effie visits sometimes. Peeta wonders aloud if she has a bit of a thing for Haymitch, especially now he's cleaned up a little. I think perhaps she just doesn't know where else to go.

Old melodies sneak up on me and I start to sing again. Teach my father's songs to Peeta. Watch him teach them to our children. Wonder if it's possible to fall in love with someone a little bit more each day.

Realise, slowly, that this is how it feels to be happy.

_We seal the pages with salt water and promises to live well to make their deaths count._


End file.
